


Delcius Cruciatus

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, M/M, Out of Character, Romance, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Slash, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-11
Updated: 2007-05-31
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: [HPCD slash] Set at the end of GoF. Harry Potter is found guilty for the death of Cedric, and sentenced to life in Azkaban. But what happens when the person you supposedly murdered shows up, alive and well? What exactly IS Cedric Diggory? Dark!Harry





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Cornelius Fudge, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. To drive the rest of you annoying lawyers away, I also do not intend this fanfiction as any form of slander, nor do I make any profit from it. Get it? Got it? Good. 

Notes: I have yet to come across any good Harry/Cedric fics. None. Nadda. So, you know me, I wrote one! This pairing really doesn’t get a lot of credit, and there was so much potential between them in the book and movie –pouts-. I really was disappointed that no one felt inspired by it. –pointed look- Anyway, here ya go.

Dedicated To: My Liberate Me readers. I love all of you so much. It is honestly your encouraging, thoughtful, and curious reviews that keep that story going. In gratitude, I present to you my promised Harry Potter/Cedric Diggory slash. Merry (early) Christmas! I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings: SLASH. AU. Angst (I’m very predictable), twisted characters, strong language, sexual situations, and minor deaths. Nothing new…

Prelude

Though it was warm inside Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and though he was located on one of the higher, more humid floors, his lithe body shivered as he sat on the windowsill of the Prefect bathroom. He studied the outside with a thoughtful eye, shivering once again at the sight of the harsh wind blowing the trees about fiercely. She would tell him that it was all in his mind, and beckon him to return to their bed in the Room of Requirement. And any other time, he would appease her, though for reasons he knew not. His housemates claimed it to be love that drove him to follow her every whim, and they would always be taken aback when he snorted and rolled his eyes at their assumption.

They knew not what love was. Love was the reason he was not in his bed at two o’clock on a Tuesday morning. Love was the reason he had been in such haste that he had forgotten his robe. Love was the reason his lean body was nestled up against the cool glass of the window, and not soaking pleasantly in the warm water the bath not three feet away provided.

Love was the reason Cedric Diggory was honestly considering letting Harry Potter win the bloody tournament he no longer felt a desire to compete in.

The seventeen-year-old Hufflepuff breathed deep as he arched his shoulders in an attempt to ease the pain they were giving him, and a yawn escaped his pale pink lips. He was late, as usual. Probably forgot to set his alarm again, or stayed up playing Exploding Snap with his friends. Cedric would always smile whenever the young raven-haired Gryffindor snuck into their hiding spot, soot covering every inch of his usually porcelain skin. His rival Seeker had admitted to not having much talent with the game, something Cedric teased him about constantly.

The brunette could remember the first time he had felt his heart thump at the sight of Harry Potter. He had been coming up to take a bath after rounds, when he had heard something that sounded similar to sobbing. Knowing all of the other Prefects to be waiting until tomorrow for their showers (being too tired to wait until he was finished), Cedric had been both curious and cautious of who else could be in the room. He had opened the door with great care, so as not to alert whomever it was to his presence, and that’s when he saw him. Emerald green eyes filled with crystal tears, small body shaking with painful sobs, raven locks in more disarray than normal. He had gasped at what his eyes had seen, and Harry had looked up, a defeated expression on his face. Cedric knew that even if he had been Professor Snape, Harry would have been far too lost to care.

Cedric was pulled from his musings by the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, and turned and smiled at the sound of scuffling feet. His brown eyes observed no figure to be making such a noise, and it lightened the Champion’s heart. Harry was here. Late, he knew, but here nonetheless.

“Sorry,” came the soft whisper of the younger wizard. Cedric said nothing as Harry’s Invisibility Cloak fell away, revealing the still pajama-clothed Gryffindor. His eyes were downcast, and a dark blush covered his pale cheeks, causing the other’s smile to grow. Even though they had been meeting every other day for two months, Harry was still as shy around him as he had been the first day.

“Think nothing of it,” he assured him, lightly jumping from the windowsill and approaching the Boy Who Lived. “Did you forget the alarm again?” Harry still refused to look up, finding his untied shoes much more interesting.

“Something like that,” he mumbled softly. Cedric frowned at his non-forwardness, and slowly reached out a hand to lift Harry’s chin. His frown deepened at the sight of the dark circles beneath Harry’s eyes, and his brown pools sparkled with concern.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” he observed dryly. Emerald eyes rolled, but their owner did not deny the accusation. Instead, Harry lightly removed himself from Cedric’s grip and walked slowly toward the window his boyfriend had been sitting at not a moment before, resting his scarred forhead on its cool glass. Though he wanted nothing more than to take the smaller wizard into his arms, and hold and comfort him until dawn broke, Cedric waited patiently for Harry to tell him what was wrong, confident that he would.

“I try to sleep,” said the Gryffindor after a moment of silence, voice filled with fatigue. “I even raided Snape’s stores last week to get some of his Dreamless Sleep potion. It just… doesn’t work.” The panicked undertone of his boyfriend’s voice startled the heavier Seeker, and he quickly stepped forward, stopping at the sight of the raven-haired boy’s reflection in the glass. His eyes were haunted, and crystal-like tears were beginning to form beneath their rims. He was about to speak when Harry turned around sharply.

“I dream about you,” he chocked. “I see you, lying on the ground, and you’re staring at me…” He took in a deep shuddering breath, and for a moment, Cedric was unsure if he would be able to continue. However, Harry mustered up enough strength to finish. “You’re dead,” he finally whispered, raising his eyes to meet with Cedric’s, the tears finally releasing to make a path down his smooth face. “You’re dead, and it was my fault.”

The Hufflepuff Seeker said nothing as he pulled the now sobbing boy toward him, wrapping him in such a strong embrace that he would be surprised if his bones weren’t breaking. He ran his hand through the silky, messy raven locks that had always enchanted him, and pressed his lips to the top of Harry’s head.

“They’re just nightmares, love,” he soothed, running a hand up and down Harry’s back as the wizard continued to tremble. “Just horrible dreams. I’m not going to die anytime soon. Unless, of course, Cho finds out about us and bursts my blood vessels with her high-pitched screaming.” Even Harry couldn’t not laugh at that, and a smile formed on Cedric’s face at the delightful noise. Harry burrowed his face further into Cedric’s robes, taking in a deep breath of his boyfriend’s scent.

“Don’t ever leave me, Cedric,” he pleaded softy. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

Cedric’s heart broke at the plea, and he clutched Harry still tighter. “I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t leave you, love. Never, not even in death, will I leave you.”

The Hufflepuff continued to hold his boyfriend even after he had fallen asleep, content with the way things were. Hopefully, soon, they would be able to come out with their relationship. Right now, they both knew their bond would not survive the strains of the Tournament, but perhaps within the year, when Cedric was no longer a student, but a teacher, they could be honest. Harry hated keeping secrets, and since student/teacher relationships, due to the lack of a heavy child population in the Wizarding World, was not frowned upon, perhaps he would lighten a bit. Cedric longed to see innocence on Harry’s face once more. The possibility left a smile on the Champion’s face as he joined the Gryffindor in slumber.

As the two boys rested peacefully, they could not know that Cedric would not be able to keep his promise. They could not know of the horror that awaited Harry not long after he was slammed with his love’s death.

And they could not know of the small secret burning within the very core of Cedric’s being, that would change their lives forever, and possibly not even for the best.

TBC

What do you think? I know it’s short, but, hey, it’s a prelude. I’ve got so many things planned for this baby that your head will spin… hehe… well… not literally… yeah.

You will get another look into Harry and Cedric’s first meeting in chapter one, and you will get chapter one this weekend. It would be sooner, but I have exams coming up –scowls disdainfully-, and, hell, and update of Liberate Me and My Lord Potter before the 20th. How does that sound? Good? Good.

OK, you lot, I have to go. Chapters to write and such. –blinks- 

Hugs!

-Brit

(PS) Points to anyone who can guess what I am doing to Cedric!


	2. Things Are Not What They Seem

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Viktor Krum, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. Likewise, I do not intend this fanfiction to be any form of slander, nor do I make any profit from it.

To Reviewers: -hugs- I love you all. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas! Here, have some Firewhiskey. Be warned, however. Should Filch catch you, you’re on your own. Fred and George Weasley have consented to be my alibi, so if you feel the need to snitch, you’re screwed. 

Notes: Just incase it annoyed any of you, Harry and Cedric have not been completely sexually involved (they haven’t “gone all the way”). I consider “second-base” sexual activity with fourteen and younger pushing it, and the only reason Ced and Harry can is due to the special circumstances with Cedric (not being fully human). 15 and up, however, is free reign –giggle-. 

Just, think of it as the Wizarding World having different standards and regulations than ours, all right? All right. 

Notes Again: Sorry this took so long. Cedric was being an ass and not telling me what he was –glare-. ‘Tis why they belong to Rowling, I suppose… 

Warnings: angst, slash, language, twisted characters, and a character death (not too descriptive, and not a main character)

Chapter One

It was quiet, the Hospital Wing, which was rather odd, considering the amount of people who wanted to enter. Normally, anyone who wanted to enter would be able to, as the nurse, Madame Pomfrey, was not usually inclined to refusing those in need of medical assistance. However, as no one behind the thick oak door was injured enough to require her attention, and her favorite student was, the aged witch felt no guilt whatsoever as she politely (or not, depending on the number of times of the offence) sent the nosey people away. And thus, no noise entered the room.

Which benefited the slumbering Harry Potter in more ways than one.

Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were the only other students inside the Hospital Wing, both just as anxious as any adult who knew the circumstances surrounding Harry’s admittance. The two fourth year Gryffindors had not removed their worried gazes from their friend since their arrival, not even when beckoned to leave by Mrs. Weasley. As it was, not even Madame Pomfrey herself could feel compelled to make them leave, understanding the fear they felt for the youngest of their infamous trio, after having seen him appear in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch, a dead schoolmate crushed in his grip, and looking near-death himself. And so, the teen witch and wizard stayed, Hermione curled up in a chair to the side, Ron sitting on the edge of the bed, hand resting absently on that of his best friend.

To think that they had nearly lost him… 

Ron’s hand clutched Harry’s hand tighter at the unbearable thought. His mind flashed with possibilities of the horrors that his beloved friend could have faced; images of Harry twisting and screaming under the Cruciatus Curse, or arching and crying under the Os Torquere. A shiver ran down his own spine as his mind continued to churn.

“My parents are waiting,” said Hermione suddenly. Ron turned about, having forgotten she was there, and his eyes widened in disbelief at her statement. She caught this, of course, and scowled. “What?” She demanded haughtily. “They’re worried, Ron! They don’t know what’s going on, and quite frankly, neither do I!” Ron felt an indescribable emotion well up inside of him at her words, and he was up so fast that the witch couldn’t even see it. Suddenly, the redhead’s hand was wrapped tightly around her wrist, so painful that Hermione was certain it would break at any moment. His cerulean eyes were ablaze with a passionate fire, and when he spoke, his words were spat out with disgust.

“You don’t know what’s going on?” He demanded dangerously, eyes narrowing. Hermione took a step backwards, though stopped when his grip would allow her to move no further. Though fearful, she held her head up defiantly, though this only served to make her friend angrier. “Fine, then, I’ll explain it to you. Harry Potter, our best friend, just witnessed the rebirth of the most powerful Dark Lord in a century. He dueled with him, and lived to tell the tale. Cedric Diggory is dead, and he is only the first in many deaths to come. Now, tell me, Hermione, what is do difficult to understand about that?” The last phrase was shouted, and Hermione flinched away, pulling on her wrist hard enough to break it free of Ron’s grasp.

“I understand that, Ron,” she said with forced calmness, though her eyes darted around for any sign of help. Seeing none, she sighed and continued. “It’s just… that’s not what it looks like…” Ron’s anger was quickly replaced with a puzzled expression, and he backed off a little, head cocked to the side. Hermione relaxed at the movement, her stubbornness returning in full force.

“What do you mean, that’s not what it looks like?” The brunette Gryffindor, looking slightly hesitant, opened her mouth to respond. However, before she could utter one word, the door to the Hospital Wing opened, and a flustered and angry-eyed Madame Pomfrey bustled in.

“Ms. Granger,” she called, her words dripping with fire that was not aimed at the young student. “There are Ministry official who would like to speak with you in the Headmaster’s office.” Hermione simply stared at her, with an expression similar to that of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Seeming to realize she was panicking, the Mediwitch hurried to reassure her. “They just want to know what you know about the events of today. The Headmaster will be with you as well, dear.”

Slowly, Hermione nodded, and moved toward the door, not even so much as shooting Ron a look over her shoulder. He watched her retreating back with a sneer of disgust, her words still ringing clearly in his mind. What did she mean, it wasn’t what it looked like? Of course, he knew what it could look like, to someone who didn’t know Harry very well, but surely Hermione knew better than to believe that! Hell, surely everyone knew better than to believe that Harry would have killed Cedric Diggory in cold blood.

“Mr. Weasley?” Ron was jerked from his chilling thoughts at Madame Pomfrey’s call, and raised his eyes to meet with her concerned ones. “Perhaps you should go back to your dormitory, dear,” she suggested, ever in nurse-mode. “It’s been a trying night, and you look a tad pale.” Realizing this woman intended to send him from the room, and therefore, away from Harry, Ron shook his head vigorously, moving quickly to sit at his friend’s side.

“I would actually like to stay here a while longer, if you don’t mind, Madame Pomfrey,” he said suavely, the exact opposite of how he felt. “I just… need to be around him for a little bit…” He drew off, the explanation causing more embarrassment than he had originally thought it would, but the nurse nodded in understanding, eyes softening as they landed on her favorite patient. 

“Of course, dear,” she replied. “Just keep quiet, all right?” Ron smiled in agreement, and then the Mediwitch, checking on her charge once more, closed the curtains around them, giving the duo much desired privacy.

The youngest son of Molly and Arthur Weasley slumped the second he was sure the older witch was gone, reaching over to smooth Harry’s raven fringe. When he spoke, his words were soft and soothing, though they held behind them a fire that wasn’t usually there.

“It’s ok, mate,” he assured, more to himself than to his friend. “No one’s going to take you away from Hogwarts. No one is going to take you away from us, Harry. No one.”

All he received in response was Harry twisting slightly on the bed, attempting to move away from an enemy that was not there. 

Neither boy knew of the horrors that were to come.

.T.

“Odd, isn’t it?” A mocha eye cracked open at the question, and Viktor Krum was quick to seek out the form of his lover. She was resting her head against the window of the classroom they spent their nights in, the moonlight magnifying her beauty in impossible ways. The troubled expression on her face caused him to be captivated and worried, as were the constant mixed emotions he felt whenever he looked at her. Mindless of his nude form, he rose from their conjured bed and made his way to her, wrapping his strong arms around her sheet-covered body, nuzzling his nose into her neck.

“What is?” He inquired, just as softly. She leaned back against him, letting out a sad sigh that made him hold her tighter. “Fleur…”

“Just hold me, Viktor. Please?” The plead in her voice caught him off guard, as the Beauxbatons student was not one to be so submissive. He complied with her wish, however, murmuring soothing things into her ear to calm her. The Drumstrang male knew, of course, what ailed the pretty blonde. He knew how close she had grown to Potter, Diggory, and (of course) himself, over the course of the term. Diggory’s death had struck her hard, and Potter being in the hospital wing was putting her on the edge of a breakdown. He tended not to think of how it was effecting him.

Viktor released a content sigh as he continued to hold Fleur. How lucky they had been to find one another. Being able to connect despite being surrounded by over a thousand other possibilities. He clutched her tighter still, realizing how easy it would have been to mate with someone else. How easy it would have been to lose her without even knowing he had her in the first place.

“Something’s going to happen, Viktor,” whispered Fleur suddenly, dragging him sharply from his thoughts. He pulled away slightly as she turned in his embrace, and their eyes locked in a fierce connection that the professional Seeker quickly lost. There was such fear in her blue orbs, and such a tremble in her voice. Her words were not spoken out of the emotion of having just lost a friend. The Veela felt something else, something… more horrifying than anyone’s imagination could create. She shivered, and his arms were once again around her.

“Do not worry so,” he urged. “Tomorrow, we return to our homes, and all will be well.” 

“Just watch. Nothing bad will happen.”

.T.

She was located in the center of the room, back rigged against the hard wooden chair in which she sat, eyes wide with awed fright as they shifted from one dark figure to the next. Though it was not so, she felt as though she were on trial for some horrible crime, and that the men standing before her held her freedom, and even possibly her life, in their hands.

As it was, they probably did.

A soft, nearly inaudible whimper left Hermione Granger’s mouth as the Ministry of Magic wizards exchanged whispers. Her Headmaster was nowhere in sight, and the fourteen-year-old witch wondered if he, too, was being interrogated. Powerful though Albus Dumbledore was, she supposed not even he could escape the rule of the Wizarding World’s government. 

“Ms. Granger.” Hermione was snapped to attention at the firm voice, and her gaze fell to the stout, important-looking wizard who was smack dab in front of her. Her bushy brunette head jerked back slightly in repulsed surprise, an action that seemed to annoy the man further. “I must stress the need for accuracy in your answers. You, child, hold the power to send an innocent boy to Azkaban or allow a murderer to run free on the streets of our community. Do you understand the seriousness of your situation?” Slowly, and with much confusion, the fourth-year Gryffindor nodded her head, and the wizard stepped back, apparently satisfied. “Very well, Ms. Granger. Rojere.” He turned his head to a looming figure on the back. “I believe you wished to go first?” Hermione suddenly ran cold as the man nodded and stepped forward, not removing his hood as he moved toward her.

“Ms. Granger,” he all but hissed, kneeling so that he was at eye-level with her. He paused for a moment, as though wishing her to grow uncomfortable with his presence (which she was), before proceeding. “The Daily Prophet reports that Mr. Potter has …episodes… in which he complains about headaches with excruciating pain. It says that he once had such an attack whilst in Divination this year. Is this report true?”

“Yes,” answered Hermione with cautious truthfulness. What had that to do with anything?

“And is it true,” continued Rojere, “that Mr. Potter says these headaches are caused by You-Know-Who?”

“Yes,” she replied again, feeling slightly more confident. This could only be beneficial to Harry’s case. If she got the Ministry to believe that Voldemort was still alive, then it could be presented as evidence at Harry’s trial ( for there would be, she was sure, a trial for him), and would be enough to get him cleared of charges.

“Ms. Granger,” began Rojere yet again, recalling her attention. “Do you think that Mr. Potter might be somewhat… insane?”

“What?” The witch gasped out, caught off guard. She glanced around quickly, but none of the other wizards seemed appalled by the question. She returned her eyes to that of her inquirer, and he repeated the question.

“Do you think that Mr. Potter is insane, Ms. Granger?” 

(Say yes), urged a tiny voice inside her head, and before she knew it, her mouth had formed that word.

“Yes.” Hermione’s eyes widened in horror at her reply, and she was so caught up with it that she missed the sinister smirk forming on Rojere’s face. 

“Do you think that it was Mr. Potter who killed Mr. Diggory? Whilst they were in the maze?” 

(Say yes).

“Yes.” Again, Hermione grew panicked. What the hell was going on?

From behind Rojere, two wizards shared identical smirks of victory. 

(Tell them Harry was jealous of Cedric. Tell them he was angry when Cedric beat him in the Quidditch match in third year. Tell them how he wanted revenge. Tell them he often talked about killing Cedric Diggory.)

With a tongue completely against her control, Hermione relayed this information to the Ministry officials. She also told them how Harry had been growing more and more hungry for fame, and how he devised the perfect plan to achieve it. The Ministry wizards grew angry as her story flowed freely from her mouth. Faking the return of a frightening, murderous Dark Lord was enough to be sent to Azkaban, but killing the innocent son of another Ministry wizard was nearly enough for the Dementor’s Kiss. Tears formed in Hermione’s eyes as she all but sentenced one of her best friend’s to a fate of eternal hell, but they would not fall even as she finished the faux tale.

“Thank you for your time and help, Ms. Granger,” said the stout wizard from earlier, after her words were done. The others grumbled similar statements, none of them sincere. They began to file out of the room, each congratulating one another, but much to the teen’s horror, Rojere stayed in his knelt position until the last wizard had filed out.

“Hermione Granger,” he mocked nastily, rising. “What a weak-minded Mudblood you are. Then again, you were always shite against the Imperious Curse in class, so why should I have expected any different this time?”

As the hooded man finished his words, he pulled back his cover, revealing a grotesquely warping face. Hermione’s eyes widened in terror as the face Harry had earlier described as Barty Crouch, Jr., whom was supposedly a victim of the Dementor’s Kiss, appeared right before her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but was unable to utter even a squeak as he gave a spiteful smirk, eyes glittering with madness as he spoke once more. 

“My Master thanks you for your help in this situation, and has offered you a reward for it that seldom few Mudbloods get.” And with this, he drew his wand and pointed it right at her head.

“Obliviate!” 

.T.

Albus Dumbledore was out of breath as he raced down the halls to his office. His white beard had come loose from his belt, and was now waving madly behind him, barely dodging Mrs. Norris’ claws as the elderly wizard flew past her. His half-moon spectacles were askew on his wrinkled face, halfway down his crooked nose, and yet, he paid it no mind. 

Never before had the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry felt as stupid as he did now. 

He had been going to the Hospital Wing to check up on Harry after speaking with the Diggorys, only to have Poppy stop him at the door, asking him why he wasn’t in his office with Hermione Granger whilst the Ministry officials questioned her. Fear worse than ever before had flowed through him, and he had been out of the room in a flash, racing toward his office without concern of what any passerby would think.

He should have known the Fudge would try something like this, especially after his reaction to the news of Voldemort’s return. Pressing the entire blame of Cedric Diggory’s death on Harry Potter, whom the Wizarding World already believed to be a mental, attention-seeking little boy, was the easiest way for the Minister to get out of the situation he didn’t want to be in. 

He should have foreseen it!

Dumbledore finally had the stone gargoyle in sight when he saw the small figure he knew at once to be Hermione Granger, walking with a confident stride in his direction. He picked up pace as he neared her, knowing at once that he was too late, that she had already been manipulated and questioned. This time tomorrow, Harry Potter would be in a cell in Azkaban, or worse…

“Hello, Headmaster,” greeted the young Gryffindor as he drew to a halt in front of her. He was unable to form any sort of reply, much too out of sorts for it, and Hermione took that moment to study his state, expression growing alarmed as she did so. “Professor, are you alright? What’s wrong? Has something happened to Harry?” 

“The Ministry wizards,” gasped Albus breathily, finally beginning to regain composure. “Where are they?” Hermione’s eyes widened in realization.

“Oh! There was only one man there when I went… Rojere, I think his name was.” Albus nodded, knowing the man (former student, and very bright), and waited impatiently for her to continue. “He said there was no need for my presence, as they already had everything they needed.” She cocked her head to the side at this, a confused look in place. “What were they talking about, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore gazed at his pupil for a moment, locking eyes with her, using Occlumency to dig through her mind. He saw that, indeed, Rojere had told her this, and that she also had no clue as to what was going on. He sighed as he pulled himself out of her head, suddenly feeling quite his age.

“I think perhaps, Ms. Granger, it is time you went to bed.” The fourth-year’s face fell.

“But I was hoping to stop by and see Harry again…” Albus shook his head.

“Not tonight, Ms. Granger. He, as well as you, has had a trying day. Sleep is what you need. Now, off with you.” Although reluctantly, Hermione nodded her head and brushed past him with a quiet bid of good night. He watched her go, not paying attention as she stumbled once, twice, and then three times before she turned the corner, his mind plagued by much heavier thoughts.

The Ministry officials had all the evidence they needed to make an arrest. His heart gave a painful throb that made him clutch it tightly. 

He was going to lose him.

.T.

He was cold. His bare feet were wet as he walked on the stiff grass, and his pajamas also contained a dampness of similar feel. For a brief moment, he could not determine as to why he would be outside in such a state, as he had much more common sense than that. But then Harry Potter took in his surroundings. The cloudy sky, the dark, almost sinister-looking grass, the tall, dark structure atop the hill he was standing on, and, of course, the headstones that littered the area. And the young teenaged savior turned to ice.

He was in the graveyard again.

Harry’s hand instantly flew to his pocket in search of his wand, but much to his horror, it wasn’t there. His raven head flew up as a sound of cruel laughter came from behind him. Instantly, he whirled around, unimaginable pain coursing through him as his emerald eyes fell upon the grotesque, snake-like form of Lord Voldemort.

“Welcome back, Harry,” hissed the Dark Lord, a twisted cross between a sneer and a smile forming on his face. He lifted his wand, the expression dropping, and then shouted in a voice filled with intense rage, “Avada Kadavra!” Harry closed his eyes tightly and waited for the end.

But the green light never came. He cracked his eyes open, only to see a tall, lean figure standing in front him, taking the hit instead. He watched in horror as he savior fell back onto him, knocking them both over. With a groan, Harry sat up, and looked at the dead person’s face.

It was Cedric.

“No.” Harry pushed himself away from his boyfriend’s body quickly, struggling to stand up, unable to take his eyes away from Cedric’s handsome face. Voldemort began a new round of laughter.

“Do you kill everyone you meet, Potter?” He cried, voice filled with amusement. “It’s a wonder your friends are still alive!”

“W-What?” Stuttered Harry, not looking up, but filled with terrible confusion. Voldemort’s crimson eyes twinkled happily. 

“You killed him, Potter,” he said, nodding toward Cedric. “You killed him, just like you killed your parents.” 

“You’re… you’re lying!” Protested Harry, shaking his head. “You’re lying!” And he threw himself on top of the Hufflepuff Seeker’s body, grasping his robes in his hands, sobbing freely into the scratchy material. 

“Cedric, please,” he whispered. “Cedric, I’m so sorry. Oh God, please forgive me, Cedric, please!”

“Harry?”

“Cedric?” Gasped the teen, sitting up. But all that greeted him was the pale face and blue lips of his lover. Harry’s eyes filled with yet more tears as he looked around. Voldemort was nowhere in sight.

“Harry… Harry? Harry, wake up! Come on, mate! Wake up, Harry!”

He shot up with a gasp, breathing erratic and deep as sweat poured from his forehead. He was no longer in the graveyard – he could see the familiar curtains that surrounded his usual bed in the hospital wing. The lack of light signified that it was still night. 

“Harry?”

The raven-haired teen slowly turned around, emerald eyes locking with the concerned cerulean of his best friend. Without warning, Harry launched himself into Ron’s arms, and the redhead was so taken aback by the movement that he instantly returned the desperate embrace tightly. Harry sobbed into his robes, and Ron’s heart broke at the pain that practically radiated from the smaller wizard.

“Why did he leave me, Ron?” The younger boy whimpered. It only took a brief second for the taller of the two to figure out who ‘he’ was. “Why?” And Ron’s grip grew tighter as he continued to cradle his broken friend, reaching a hand up to grip the smooth-yet-messy raven locks. He had no answer.

“Oh, Harry.”  
.T.

Amos Diggory was one of those kind of people that you always wanted to have for a best friend. He was smart, funny, witty, and fiercely loyal. He was a good man, a loving husband, and a doting and devoted father. Why, there was seldom a time when school was out that one did not see him and Cedric walking side by side, whether it was for a day out or a simple stroll on the way to the Ministry for work. Everyone who knew Amos admired him; men wanted to be him, women wanted to marry him, and children wanted to be his. For, surely, there was no greater man than Amos Diggory. No sir, not even Albus Dumbledore himself.

And they were, all of them, deceived. 

The Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Beasts raced with unnatural speed down the dirt paths of a dark village, and large bundle clutched tightly and protectively in his arms. His face was pale and distraught, though his eyes stayed firmly fixed on a point ahead, even as his feet occasionally caught and stumbled. If one listened close enough, they could hear the soft sob emitting from him as he clutched the bundle tighter still. 

His son, whom he held so safely in his arms, was dead. Six hours cold, six hours gone. He had not been able to bear the thought of those people taking away his body, to lock away in some casket and lowered into the ground, or to be burned to ashes in some ridiculous ceremony. He only wanted to hold him, to rock him, to tell him that everything would be all right. He wanted to see those brown eyes snap open, and see a smile on that handsome face. He wanted to hear Cedric laugh, and claim the whole thing to simply be a rouse he and Harry Potter had cooked up to mess with them.

But Amos knew he wouldn’t. Which was why he was here, in a place he had avoided since Cedric’s birth, by threat of death. He knew he would not leave this place alive.

But Cedric would.

He felt his blood run cold as he neared his destination, and he dared not relax his grip on his son’s corpse. His dark brown eyes darted around nervously as he approached the black wooden door of the manor, and he tensed slightly at the sound of snarling. He had forgotten about the bloody hellhounds, which was rather odd, as one did not usually tend to forget large, thin black dogs with fangs two inches long and as sharp as razors that had once nearly torn of their leg. But the beasts did not approach him, opting instead to give low, threatening growls he knew better than to ignore. With great caution, Amos reached out a fist and wrapped three times on the door.

For a moment, all was quiet, and for a moment, the wizard almost gave up hope. In fact, he had already turned around and taken a step away when the door flung open. 

“You are trespassing, traitor,” rumbled a low, raspy voice.

Amos’ face fell as he twisted his neck, and his grip on his son became lax as his brown eyes locked with hypnotizing yellow. Seldom few witches and wizards could claim to have ever seen a Chimera, but, unfortunately for this wizard, he was not one of them. Eustrean was one of the oldest (and temperamental) of the infamous beasts, and he was also Amos’ promised death should he have returned.

Lovely.

Amos turned all the way around now, an involuntary shiver racing through him as Eustrean licked his lips hungrily. Everything within him screamed to run, and indeed, the man considered it. However, before he could take a step back, Eustrean pushed his lion nose into Cedric’s cold side, and took in a deep whiff. 

“What’s is this?” He asked, pulling away, eyes gleaming as Amos clutched the corpse tighter. “Have you brought this body as a peace offering to the Queen Kairos?” It let loose a bout of laughter, that was a mix between a lion’s roar and a goat’s bleat. However, the joyful noise instantly died away as the Chimera took another whiff, and suddenly, he was growling low in his throat, yellow eyes flashing with murderous rage.

“What is this?” He bellowed, causing Amos to tremble. “You have slaughtered an innocent; one of your own! You have committed an act of great evil; treason upon the Queen Kairos!” He swished his scaly dragon tale and pounced, and Amos closed his eyes, mentally begging Cedric for forgiveness, knowing his beloved child, nor himself, would ever taste the sweet taste of life again. He tensed as he felt Eustrean’s hot breath on his neck, and prepared himself for the end.

But the bite never came. 

Slowly, Amos cracked open one eye, and upon the sight that greeted him, opened the other and stared in disbelief. The fearful, horrifying Chimera was floating in the air, mere centimeters from his face. The majestic beast had his eyes lowered to the ground, and a subdued expression on his lion face as his tail flung harmlessly from side to side. Slowly, Eustrean lowered to the ground, upon which he instantly turned about and fell, rolling over so as to bear his belly. 

“You were told never to return here, Amos Diggory,” spoke a firm, powerful voice. Amos’ eyes widened as the owner of the voice stepped forward, and instantly, he was in a kneeling position on the ground, head bowed in a show of respect.

With a slim body, a youthful face, and long white hair that reached the ground, to those who knew of the last-born goddess, Queen Kairos was easily recognizable. She was dressed in pitch-black robes and adorned with far too much jewelry than any woman should ever wear. Her crystal-blue eyes were narrowed as she gazed at Amos’ kneeled form, his betrayal still fresh in her mind.

“My apologies,” began Amos in a humbled tone, risking a glance up, only to be silenced as the queen brought her hand up and turned her head toward Eustrean.

“Your story, my friend,” she addressed. The Chimera was instantly on his feet, sending Amos a low growl before replying to his queen.

“He brings with him an offering, my lady,” he said, spitting out the word ‘offering’ with a sarcastic undertone. “A Sylph!”

There was a round of gasps as Queen Kairos’ eyes shot back to the crouched wizard, and Amos realized that those left of his clan had come out of their houses to see the scene. 

“Is this true, Amos?” Demanded the lady, face expressionless, tone filled with anger. Realizing what it was he was leading everyone to believe, Amos shot up from the ground before anyone could blink, and was standing before the queen before Eustrean could launch an attack. Kairos did not so much as step back in surprise as Amos held Cedric’s body out to her.

“My lady,” he pleaded. “This is my son!” There were yet more gasps at this revelation, but the lady silenced them with a harsh glare . “He was killed in the Tri Wizard Tournament, by a powerful dark wizard, and not by myself. He is half Sylph.” Curiously, Kairos pulled back the cloth that covered the youth’s face, mouth becoming slightly agape as she did. This boy was, without doubt, Diggory’s child. “I understand that I must pay for my crime of returning, my lady,” continued Amos, not sounding regretful in the slightest. “But I know Sylphs can be revived by your magic. Please, my lady. Will you not save him?”

For a moment, Queen Kairos stared at Cedric’s face. She could feel the Sylph inside of him, still alive, waiting to know if it would be allowed out or not. There were many disadvantages in bringing this child back. The boy had no proper training, and, knowing Amos Diggory, probably no idea who or what he was. But there was power. Oh, yes, was there power. 

“What do you think, Nadre?” She called over her shoulder. The old crone whom had lived in the village when her and what was left of her people had arrived stepped forward, limp highly apparent in her step. From beneath matted silver hair, her hazel eyes darted around from upon her heavily wrinkled face as she, too, studied the deceased boy. She reached out a long finger, grazing the pale, cold flesh with her fingernail, and Amos was too entranced to pull back. 

“Keep him,” she simply said after a moment, drawing back and looking at the woman who was not her queen, yet had garnered respect. “He is worth it. Besides, he is one of your own.” Queen Kairos nodded, and turned her gaze back toward Amos, holding out her arms.

“Give your son to me, Amos, and he shall live.” Amos nodded, and very carefully placed Cedric in the woman’s arms. However, before she could back away, he leaned forward, and pressed a light kiss to his son’s forehead. 

“It’s for the best, Cedric. You’ll see.” He chocked on a small sob. “I love you.”

He finally stepped away, and Queen Kairos turned to do the same. Eustrean, however, was a lustful-for-blood creature, and was not satisfied by the events.

“My queen,” he called, and inclined his head respectfully as she turned toward him. “Forgive me, but… what of the traitor?”

Kairos turned her eyes toward Amos, expression much softer than it had been when she had first lain eyes on him that night. She opened her mouth, and it was instantly apparent that she intended to pardon him for his crimes and release him from his punishment. However (much to everyone’s surprise) it was he, and not Eustrean, who protested this.

“I came here knowing I would pay for my betrayal, my lady,” he whispered, looking down. “I accept it, and only request that Cedric, though he cannot see it, not be here when it is carried out. Nor,” he lifted his eyes and glanced around the ten faces of those he had once lived among. “Anyone else.”

For a moment, Kairos stared at him, before she nodded. 

“Very well.” She looked to her people pointedly. “To your homes, my friends. Let him die with dignity. Eustrean.” The Chimera looked at her, and she frowned at him in return. “Quickly.” His lion head nodded, and she turned about and entered her manor, Cedric tucked safely in her arms. 

Amos closed his eyes when he and Eustrean were finally alone. Eustrean said nothing to him, as was his style, as Amos kneeled on the ground once more. There was dead silence, and then a loud roar as Eustrean pounced.

The last thing Amos Diggory felt was the Chimera’s fangs sliding into his throat and chest before everything went mercifully black.

.T.

“I’m not ready for this,” mumbled Harry as he slowly made his way through the Great Hall the next morning. “I should have taken breakfast in the Hospital Wing. I’m not ready for this.”

Ron stifled a yawn as he sent yet another poisonous glare to another gossiping student. Though he could see what Harry meant (it would definitely be a trying day for his young friend), he tried to remain casual about the quietness of the usually bustling Great Hall and the stares they were both receiving, so as to keep Harry from becoming more stressed than he already was.

“Don’t think about it, Harry,” he whispered, finally giving up and baring his teeth in a snarl to a third-year Hufflepuff, who instantly turned around in fright. He said nothing else to help ease his friend’s anxiety as they neared their spot, to which a hole was instantly cleared for them. They sat across from Hermione, who was watching them with an odd glint in her eye (Ron said nothing, as it didn’t look malicious or accusing of any sort), with Harry seated between him and Neville.

“All right there, Harry?” Called Dean from three seats over, with Seamus looking just as curious. Harry forced a smile on his face and sent them a wordless nod. They, as well as everyone else, took the hint and said nothing else on the matter. As Harry placed a few kippers and toast onto his plate, Hermione studied both him and Ron with a critical eye.

“You look awful,” she stated bluntly, beginning to shift into her over-bearing mode. Harry shrugged, whilst Ron shot her a glower, to which she returned it with a puzzled look. 

“Nightmares,” explained Harry, missing the exchange. This tore Hermione’s attention to him, and a frown formed on her pretty, smooth face.

“I thought you took the Dreamless Sleep potion?” She inquired in confusion.

“Obviously it doesn’t work,” snarled Ron. Both Harry and Hermione looked to him at this, and Harry opened his mouth to interrogate. However, before he could utter a sound, the Great Hall doors burst open, and Argus Filch raced through them toward the Headmaster, an anxious look on his face. Everyone watched with curiosity as he practically flung himself over the table to whisper in the elderly man’s ear. Ron felt a feeling of unease flood through him as the Headmaster’s face grew pale, and the twinkle in his blue eyes dim to nothing. It was only increased when Dumbledore spoke.

“Mr. Potter,” he called, sounding, for the first time, somewhat unsure of himself. “If you would please come with me…”

“That will not be necessary, Dumbledore,” crowed a new voice from the doorway. “We are here.”

A group of five witches and wizards (three of them Aurors, judging by the color of their robes) made their way, in sync, down the same path that he and Harry had taken not ten minutes before. Unconsciously, Ron’s hand made its way to Harry’s shoulder, and he clutched it tightly as he slowly made his way to a standing position. Hermione and Harry looked at him curiously, both growing anxious as well by his actions. The five Ministry people, however, sneered at him as they approached, and stopped a mere foot from them.

“Mr. Potter,” began the snooty witch in front. “Is to come with us-.”

“Bullocks he is!” Snarled Ron, suddenly standing in front of Harry in a protective manner. “Why don’t you go and catch the bloody Dark Lord instead of bothering him?” One of the Aurors moved forward, withdrawing his wand in a threatening way. Ron saw this, but instead of being frightened, as was the desired effect, it simply fueled him more. “You are not taking him.” And with that, he reached for his wand, intent on showing them that he was serious. However, before his hand could even reach his robe pocket, the Auror from earlier had his drawn and aimed, the spell on his lips.

“Stupefy!” 

“Ron!” Harry and Hermione cried as their red-haired companion fell to the floor, though their cries were unheard as the rest of the students cried out or gasped in astonishment and horror. The rest of the Gryffindors shifted restlessly in their seats, many already reaching for their own wands, when the other two Aurors caught Harry by his arms, roughly dragging him up, ignoring his grunt of pain. 

“Mr. Potter,” repeated the witch, not having lost her cool. “Is coming with us, and will be placed in Azkaban prison until the appointed time of his trial.” Harry paled, going slack in his captors’ arms, sharing a horrified look with Hermione at the revelation. 

More gasps and cries rang out at this – even some of the Slytherins were astounded. A few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs nodded, accepting this, but Neville Longbottom was far from appeased by this explanation. 

“What the bloody hell for?” He cried, standing, though he moved no further as the first Auror aimed his wand at him. The witch smiled a coy smile, revealing her three golden teeth in the process.

“The murder of Cedric Diggory.”

.T.

“My lord,” muttered Barty Crouch, Jr. as he knelt before his newly resurrected master. Crimson eyes shifted downward, and Lord Voldemort smiled grotesquely down at his new favorite Death Eater. How wonderful it was to have Cornelius Fudge, a young Death Eater who had once served little purpose, as the current Minister of Magic. 

“Rise, my dear pet,” purred the Dark Lord, eyes glittering as Barty obeyed. “Tell me, is it done?”

“It is done, sire,” assured the slightly insane wizard animatedly. “Potter is on his way to Azkaban as we speak. Not even Dumbledore could get him out this time.” 

Lord Voldemort’s smile grew at this information, and he rose from his throne Lucius had brought from his home. He snapped his fingers, the sound causing the eyes of all one hundred and eighty of his Death Eaters to fall on him.

“Potter is no longer a problem!” He bellowed. An instant uproar followed, his followers chattering excitedly amongst themselves at this wonderful information. As they did so, the Dark Lord turned back to Barty, who was waiting patiently.

“Ready my Inner Circle,” he commanded. “Before my fall, we were searching for the prophecy…”

“I want it found.”

.T.

As Harry James Potter, savoir of the Wizarding World, and the renowned Boy Who Lived, was roughly thrown into Azkaban’s deepest, darkest cell, three hundred miles away, the boy he was accused of killing took in his first breath in nearly thirteen hours.

And Cedric Amos Diggory woke up.

TBC

My longest first chapter ever! –eyes wide with awe- Amazing. Beautiful… stupid bloody pain-in-the-ass chapter! @#%$^@$%^

Hehe…

Notes:

Hermione: Now, don’t go claiming I hate her, because I don’t! I just needed someone who was close to Harry for her part, and as I have always been mean to Ron (MLP the exception), I felt it was Hermione’s turn. Her character may be a little confusing now, but I promise it will clear up soon. I have plans for her. –rubs hands together- Mwhahahaha! o_O

Hogwarts Staff on Harry’s Arrest: They did not act because they knew there was nothing to be done. And, of course, if they had, it would have messed up the scene beyond repair. And I CANNOT have that. ^_^

Sylphs: You’ll find out next chapter, promise! However, if you’re feeling impatient, google will be your best bet in this one. Enjoy, but be warned! I twist…

Queen Kairos and her people: Will only be in the story for a few more chapters, and then might appear later on for brief moments. Not exactly a main character… someone of interest, perhaps? There for convenience, more like…

Eustrean: Oh, you will see a lot of him. –giggle- I like him. Loads of fun, truly. ^_^ Chimeras… great! … I think I’m turning into Hagrid. You should see what I have planned for Liberate Me –shuts mouth- 

Dumbledore: -grumbles- Yeah, he’s good. Not overly good –gags- but not manipulative. Don’t get attached –shuts up-

Drumstrang and Beauxbatons on Harry’s Arrest: Dining in their carriage/boat respectively. Not there to notice it.

Fleur: …she knows what she’s talking about…

 

Pronunciations

Eustrean: E – USE – TREE – N

Kairos: K - I – RIS

Nadre: NA – DRAY

If there are any more you would like to know, simply ask in a review.

Next Chapter: More plot development. Mainly Harry and Cedric, though Ron, Hermione Draco, Krum, Fleur, Sirius, and Remus make appearances, too.

Well, I’m off. Much love, and a Happy New Year!

-Brit


	3. Damned

  
Author's notes: [HPCD slash] AU at the end of GoF. Death is never just death, not when Fate becomes involved. Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory are not just wizards, not when Fate becomes Destiny. Not even Azkaban can contain what has been written.  


* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, Remus Lupin, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s delicious novels. Likewise, I do not intend this story do be any form of slander toward said author or her characters, nor do I make any profit from it.

Notes: Check it out … I’m back. o.O Let’s tell everyone, ok? 

Humorous note: I’m so freaking blonde. It just really occurred to me that there could be no windows in the Slytherin dorms, because they are, in fact, underground. –blink- Anyway, my apologies if I’ve written something to suggest otherwise.

Warnings: Slash, vulgar language, horrific violence, and all that other nonsense that will turn your adorable, polite little children into rebellious teenagers. … I was kidding about that part, but the actual warnings? Yeah, well, if they made you squeamish, run away now – they’re real.

Chapter Two

“Fetch me that spare inkbottle from my desk drawer, would you, Weasley?”

Cornelius Fudge. The Minister of Magic. A man of short stature, but of a powerful position. Usually, a man such as him, who had felt nothing of power during his adolescent years of being short, naïve, and desperate for a friend, would have seen the potential such a position could offer. The potential to right all of the wrongs he had witnessed as a child. To stop the wars that had sent children home early to their parents; wars that had sent mothers into incurable hysteria as they lowered their beloved children into cold, dark holes in the ground. Potential to correct corrupt school systems; potential to offer aid to needy children, to stop famine, abuse, and murder.

But there were others who had fallen into such an early life that had taken the alternate, dimly lit, but conveniently short route. Children who had grown into men physically, but mentally, had maintained their anxiety – their desperateness for power that had been so important in their adolescence, and the nearly insatiable need to do anything and everything necessary to keep a hold of that power once they had obtained it.

Minister Fudge, unfortunately for the countless citizens who found themselves under his care, was one of those poor souls had followed the shorter route.

“It doesn’t have to be a fine one, Weasley, any will do!” The Minister snapped after a moment had gone by without receiving the requested item. He stood hunched over the windowsill, quill poised in a position that clearly pointed that he had been in the middle of writing when his first inkbottle had run dry. The left eyebrow upon his sweaty face twitched with impatience at the sound of drawers being open and slammed shut, his mouth jarring open in preparation to release another call, before instantly slamming shut at the small sound of a victorious mutter from his companion.

“Here you are, sir.” The small bottle, half-way emptied, dangled before his face in a taunting dance, gleaming in a way that made the Minister hesitate for the briefest moment, as though it knew exactly what was going on. But guilt was not an emotion Fudge was familiar with, and he snatched the bottle from Weasley’s slim fingers, jamming the quill in and out in a brutal, stabbing fashion.

‘Yours in complete sincerity, and with my deepest, most heartfelt condolences, Cornelius Oswald Fudge

Minister of Magic’.

“There,” Fudge whispered ecstatically, holding up the piece of parchment for a moment, studying it as a proud father would do with his newborn child. Then, just as quickly, and with as much gentleness, he folded the paper up, sliding it into the prepared envelope carefully, before handing it to the waiting tawny owl. “Albus Dumbledore,” he growled at it firmly. “And no funny business on your way, either. It’s straight there.” The creature ruffled its feathers indignantly at the insult, but spread its wings anyway, taking off from the window in a destinationed flight.

“Sir?” Fudge blinked at the call, startled, as though he had forgotten that he was not alone in the room. He turned, catching sight of the red hair the framed a freckled face harboring a confused expression, and then recalled exactly where he was, and whom he was with. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir … what was that?”

“A personal letter to Albus Dumbledore from the Wizengamot,” he replied briskly, moving away from the window and toward the coat tree, where his bowler hat and thin black robe lay waiting. “Harry Potter’s trial is to be held tomorrow at midmorning, and as his guardians are Muggles who have a rather … unique fear of magic, it was thought best that Dumbledore accompany him in their place.”

“Tomorrow? … Isn’t that … isn’t that rather soon, sir?”

“Soon?” Fudge barked, expression appalled. “Soon? A boy was murdered on school grounds, and suspicions lie on another student. In my opinion, three days later is pushing the late line a bit far, isn’t it? For Merlin’s sake, think of the boy’s family! Surely they would want the guilty punished for murdering their only child?” He did not wait for a reply, jerking the door open in an agitation not brought on by the sudden inquisition. “That’s how it is. I have a lunch date with Lucius Malfoy – take the rest of the day off. But, clean my desk up a bit for me before you leave, would you, Weasley?” Once again not waiting for a reply, Fudge left, leaving the room empty save for the solitary soul left to clean up a mess he had not made.

Percy moved with barely any recognition of his motor skills, still caught on the latest news from the Minister’s mouth. Tomorrow. Harry Potter was being tried tomorrow. Tried for the murder of Cedric Diggory, who, if Ron’s babble was to be trusted, had been an extremely close friend of Harry’s.

Now, Percy Weasley was not one to instantly jump on the “Boy Who Lived Fan Club” broomstick. There were times that he was not ashamed to admit that he was jealous of the raven-haired, emerald-eyed boy wonder who had managed to worm his way into the hearts, and occasionally home, of his family. But his envy was nowhere near powerful enough to overshadow his common sense. A normal murder trial was usually held months after the offense, no matter how strong the evidence was, just incase there had been a horrible misunderstanding with the accused. Several had been sent to Azkaban for casting the Killing Curse, only to be released weeks later when it had been discovered that another had used their wand to commit the murder.

Harry being tried only three days later was nothing short of conspiracy that, if backed by the Wizengamot, none could contest.

Somehow, his hand managed to find the Minister’s desk, and he began sweeping off the papers without regard as to where they went, when his fingers trailed over something different. A lumpy sort of ink, that was both sizzling and icy to the skin. Confused, Percy glanced down, only to have his eyes land on the most horrifying sight he had ever seen in the office.

.T.

The rain hounded mercilessly upon the esteemed castle that was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The sun that should have beaming its bright happiness at the students below, was nowhere in sight, nor did any of them wish it to be. The lighting that flashed overhead in its place merely reflected the spells they desperately wished they could cast, the rumbling, deep thunder expressing the magnitude of their anger.

It had been two days.

Two days since Cedric Diggory had lost his life in the Tri Wizard Tournament. Two days since the safe haven the students had believed Hogwarts to be had become disillusioned.

Two days since Harry James Potter, savior of the Wizarding World and Golden Child of Hogwarts, had been carted off to Azkaban Prison, broken and forlorn.

The school of Drumstrang, as well as a few select girls of Beauxbatons, had stayed in the English school even after their own schools had left, which had been both a surprise and not. Drumstrang no longer had a Headmaster, and the student had found themselves unconsciously looking toward Viktor Krum for signs on what to do. And thus naturally, when he stayed, they had as well. Fleur Delacour had latched herself unliterally to his side, her younger sister and two other girls joining. Madame Maxime had offered no protest, as though sensing there were none that would work. Instead, she had sent the remaining girls back to France with the Deputy Headmistress, submerged in her own reasons – serious reasons – for staying behind.

“I’ll bloody kill them all.”

The words uttered in the middle of the Great Hall only gained two or three disdainful glares, but all of them were quickly demolished by the murderous rage that welled up inside of Ron’s own darkened cerulean eyes. He had awakened in the Hospital Wing that morning, with a headache to rival that of the most traumatized Obliviate victim, and the horror of being beside the bed that Harry had rested in only a few days prior.

He hadn’t been able to do anything. Harry Potter – his best friend, his other half, his confidant, his brother – had been dragged away as though he were the Dark Lord himself, and Ron had been unable to do anything. Harry had just lost Cedric – a bond between them that Ron was suspicious was more than just a budding friendship – and then he had been taken to the one place on Earth that would make certain he would never be able to escape that horror.

“Ron!” Hermione’s vicious, perturbed hiss jerked the redhead from his brooding, and his gaze jerked toward her to clash in a furious battle of flame and power. The brunette witch who had once been a corner to the trio’s triangle was now no more than a stranger to him. She had changed drastically in the past two days, and Ron wasn’t entirely certain that is was the loss of Harry that had done it to her. Hermione had become more strict and severe – any mention of Harry’s name either had her rounding on the perpetrator with a roaring lecture that made Hell tremble, or had her shaking with an indescribable emotion plastered onto her flawless face. He had avoided speaking with her since their conversation in the Hospital Wing, but today … not today.

“Shut the bloody hell up, Hermione!” He snarled, a flash of triumph racing through his veins as his friend’s jaw dropped in surprise. The surrounding Gryffindors were in a similar state, their lunch frozen in midair halfway up to their mouths. “What makes you think that you have the right to tell me to do anything, after you let them take Harry away?!” He wanted to say more to her, to rage to her the pain he was feeling – the anger that was ramming against his bones to get to her. He wanted to embellish it all upon her frail form, so that maybe, just maybe, she could act like the torn up friend she was supposed to be.

But the slamming of the side door lassoed his attention from the pale, shaking witch, his head snapping in the direction of the offending sound, his heart stopping as it landed on the small form of Remus Lupin leaning against the frame, and the large black dog situated beside him. Without thinking on it, Ron was up on his feet as the werewolf finally spoke.

“Dumbledore.” His voice was tired, yet tight, golden eyes flashing with more anger than Ron contained in his entire body as he stared with contempt at Albus Dumbledore. From Remus’ side, the Grim-like dog released a low growl that had half of the students fidgeting fearfully. “A word, if you don’t mind.” The Headmaster nodded gravely, said a few words to the students that Ron did not hear, and then raised to join the duo.

Ron reached them before the elderly wizard, briefly catching Remus’ equally sorrowful eyes before Padfoot bumped into him pointedly, whining with an understanding, sympathetic tone. The fifteen-year-old quickly knelt down and caught the Animagus in a tight embrace, clutching the fur in what he was sure was a painful grip – but the dog did nothing but press himself into Ron’s chest. It was a short comfort, but a needed one, for them both. Remus’ hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and the teen looked up to a saddened face. Without a word, he rose from his position, and exited the Great Hall through the side door, Padfoot at his heels.

“Miss Granger?” Dumbledore called out softly, curious and pitying blue eyes landing on the girl’s sedentary form. For a concise moment, Hermione hesitated, and then moved away from the bench and toward the Headmaster, to a conversation that she was certain would drag up more confusing, painful feelings – but one she knew she could not miss.

Just before she entered the doorway, her mocha eyes strayed, landing dead-on with a pair of piercing silver ones. Hermione felt her blood freeze as Draco Malfoy seemed to examine her soul within a matter of seconds, and shatter into pieces at the smirk that slid across his face.

Without waiting for the Headmaster’s hand to connect comfortingly on her back, Hermione raced through the door, ignoring the whispers that followed her departure, and the cold glare Ron shot her from over his shoulder.

.T.

The sun shone brightly overhead, bathing him in a warmth that had thus far seemed to avoid him. It revived his skin, kissed his cheeks … and he relished in it unabashedly. It coated him, surrounded him, something about it familiar, yet … lacking.

A soft caress, a tender smile, words of endearment pressed against pale, shivering skin, bitter tears of salt filled with sorrow and agony, and yet an inundate of passion …Violent tears, a tight hold …

“You’re thinking too much again.”

With a soft smile that was not entirely true, Cedric turned his head to face the speaker. Without being sure how, he knew that many would be frightened at the sight of Eustrean. A giant creature that came up to his shoulder, with the head of a lion, the tail of a snake, and the horns and back hooves of a ram – a Chimera that had, for one reason or another, been by his side since the moment he had woken up two days ago.

“I was,” he admitted softly, scooting over from his position on the grass to allow room for the creature to join him. His smile deepened as Eustrean flopped lazily onto the ground, and chuckled as the Chimera scowled at the dirt that floundered upward from the invasion. “But I stopped, I promise.”

“Good,” Eustrean huffed, reaching his massive head down to give his left paw a firm lick. Cedric eyed him for a moment, knowing the next words out of his mouth would pop the little bubble of peace his friend had formed, but unable to stop them.

“A memory stopped me. Or, at least what I think was a memory …” And Cedric drew off, the thought bringing on a headache, and did not see Eustrean’s head shoot back up to study him intensely.

Forty-nine hours ago, Cedric had awoken to a golden ceiling, relaxed in a soft bed he knew was not his, in a room he was certain, or not, that he had never before seen. Forty-nine hours ago, Cedric had found himself being hovered over by a woman whose beauty he somehow knew was beyond compare, and a creature he now knew to be Eustrean resting beside him. The woman had turned out to be Queen Kairos, and he had somehow known that he was beyond lucky to be in her presence alive, rather than cold and dead in some nightmarish confinement. He remembered nothing before forty-nine hours ago, and though he was entirely certain that both the Queen and Eustrean knew how it was he came to be in a village he was not sure he was born in, they had given up nothing but his first name.

“What kind of memory?” The question brought Cedric back to the present, the tone of Eustrean’s voice implying the question had been spoken before. The embarrassment he temporarily felt evaporated at the recollection of the memory, and Cedric once again felt himself floating away.

“A complicated one,” he whispered. “Of someone. Someone I … loved … I think. Or at least someone who loved me. There was a lot of pain – emotional pain, but love, too. They were worried.”

Eustrean studied him for a moment, contemplating eyes filled with concern that did not overshadow the intelligence within. The same expression everyone in the village gained whenever Cedric had a memory flash. Cedric had laughed their concern off before … but before, the memories had been vague, old. This … this was fresh.

Or was it?

“There’s nothing else,” he added after a moment, shaking his head to clear the emotions away. “Chances are high that it was another flash that probably wasn’t mine, anyway. You know how those are.” Eustrean continued to eye him, but then nodded sagely and backed off of it.

“Are you nervous for tomorrow night?” He inquired after a moment, smacking his serpent tail against the ground gently to startle the flies from his back. The conversation dropped, another memory come and gone. Another convoluted whirlpool in an endless ocean of confusion temporarily avoided. Cedric smiled somewhat despondently, stretching his arms above his head, causing his personally tailored tunic shirt to ride up and expose a frightening bruise of which he knew not the source of.

“Not really, but, then again, tomorrow isn’t today,” he replied thoughtfully. “Tomorrow, I’ll be a nervous wreck. Right now, though?” His arms fell heftily to his sides, and he fell back against the grass with a semi content sigh. “I’m just happy to be outside.”

And Eustrean watched him relish in that enjoyment, lowering his head slightly so that the boy could not see the look in his golden eyes. The child of the man he had killed in a self-sacrificial moment. He had not taken any pleasure in the death of Amos Diggory as he had thought he would. He had expected the traitorous Sylph to return under the intention of begging his way back into the village, or with the intention of murdering Queen Kairos in some twisted sense of vengeance. But never had he expected Amos to give his life for that of his son … nor for that son to be as abundant in life and spirit as Cedric was.

A soft, unhesitant hand slid its way thoughtfully up the side of his face in a tender fashion, startling Eustrean into glancing down into Cedric’s now troubled face.

“Why do you always look so sorrowful?” He pressed softly, blinking up at the Chimera with heart-wrenching innocence. “When it is I who am lost?”

And Eustrean could offer no honest reply without shattering the pact of the village. Instead, he let himself lay once more upon the ground, forcing himself to purr until Cedric had once more grown content enough in his pained mind to seek solace from the sun.

.T.

Sirius Black. The cursed name of the disowned son of the Black family. The infamous name of one of the most troublesome, yet beloved students Hogwarts had ever seen. The name that had been transformed into a nickname that was famous beyond measure to pranksters everywhere. The name that had been labeled traitorous by the Ministry of Magic and the magical community of Britain. The name that had once been on the roster of Azkaban’s prisoners.

The name of a framed murderer, who currently looked every bit the part.

“The trial is tomorrow.”

He seethed from where he stood before the Headmaster’s desk, obsidian eyes flashing repeatedly in an anger barely contained at the elderly man’s words. From the chairs beside him, both Remus and Ron were in much the same state, whilst Hermione, who had situated herself beside the werewolf, was caught in a mixture of disbelief, sorrow, and fear. His anger only increased on her behalf.

“And what exactly are you going to do about it?” He roared finally, the guilt he should have felt at Albus’ flinch somewhat lacking in intensity. “Dumbledore. My godson is in a high-security cell in Azkaban Prison for a murder he did not commit! Tomorrow, he faces a court system that is ruled by a Minister who will do anything to keep his bloody name “pure”! You know he will destroy Harry to do it – he’ll kill him if he has to! And yet you sit here, clearly content with doing nothing!”

“Sirius,” Remus called out softly, and the infuriated Animagus calmed enough to back down. His gaze, however, remained predatory, and he eyed Dumbledore as though he were a meat to be devoured at his whim. It was an expression that had not sought harbor upon his face for fourteen years … not since he had cornered Peter Pettigrew in Godric’s Hollow.

The ancient Headmaster sighed, burying his aged forehead into wrinkled hands. Hermione studied him in horrified revelation – the invisible guilt that weighed down upon his shoulders was nearly impossible to miss by her eyes. For the first time since she had met him, the tall, proud, powerful man that she had built Dumbledore to be in her mind, now resembled the crippled figurehead he truly was.

“Amos Diggory removed his son’s body from the Quidditch Pitch himself,” he whispered after a moment, though it sounded more as though he were speaking to himself than to the other occupants in the room. “No one – not even his wife – has seen him since. He and Cedric just … disappeared.” He looked up now, and no longer did his clear blue eyes hold their infamous twinkling madness. “And with them, they took the only evidence – sound evidence – we have that Harry did not kill Cedric in that maze.”

“But then, neither do they, right?” Ron spoke up at last, freckled face contorted in puzzlement. “Without a body, they don’t have any proof that Harry did anything.” Startled, Hermione’s eyes shot to the Headmaster, but he did not meet her gaze, instead focusing his gaze solely on Ron.

“They have witnesses, Mr. Weasley,” he corrected wearily. “An entire stadium full of witches and wizards who saw Harry Potter port key back to the center with a dead Cedric Diggory in his grasp. With Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour already back, in their minds, there was no one else who could have cast the killing curse, other than the one who was not dead. In the WIZENGAMOT, that is more than enough evidence to condemn even myself.”

“That’s bloody ridiculous!” Ron spat, eyes burning once more, but Remus held up a hand to silence him. He took a moment to glance at his pacing friend, but Sirius seemed to be beyond words now, every other sound out of his mouth being a growl. The werewolf finally stood, and slowly, pointedly, made his way toward the Headmaster’s desk, leaning over and resting his hands on the thick, smooth wooden structure, golden orbs leveling with the oceanic blue ones.

“What would you have me do, Remus?” Albus inquired softly, voice so pained that for one split second, Remus actually felt a pang of pity for his mentor. But it was gone the next, when an image of James and Lily’s son flashed through his mind, shivering, cold, alone, reliving the deaths of his parents and Cedric over and over and over again …

“This is on your head, Dumbledore,” he growled lowly. “If he is sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss, it is on your head. No force on Earth will be able to protect you from me if anything happens to that boy, do you understand? Nothing. I’ll go to Voldemort myself to have you pay, if that is what it takes.”

And Albus remained silent as the infamous, powerful duo finally excited the room, Ron tagging along after them, his pale hand latched tightly onto Padfoot’s fur. He looked up in time to catch Hermione, who studied him for a moment with an expression that suggested she was unable to believe what was going on. Unable to believe that tomorrow, all could very well be lost.

And there was nothing that Albus could do about it. Cornelius would not take an audience, and there was no moral reasoning behind breaking any law.

After tomorrow, the only hope that would be left would be the desperate one that Tom would not discover the prophecy.

.T.

“Eustrean has told me that you are not nervous for tomorrow night’s turning.”

Cedric spared a glance upward from his book, but spoke not a word as Queen Kairos entered the room that had been unofficially adopted as his. She was eyeing him with the same odd expression that she usually adorned whenever she was in his presence – a mixture of awe, and of fear, and even a bit of the guilt that was so profound within Eustrean’s own breathtaking pools. Her long white hair had been drawn back, her robes the official royal blue he had come to recognize her in in the many times he had seen her. She was stunning. Truly, undeniably stunning. Several times it had been he had wondered if there was something wrong with him that he did not find himself lustfully attracted toward her.

“Then you were misinformed,” he stated softly, carefully marking his page in the book before giving her his undivided attention. His face remained expressionless – the Chimera was the only creature in the village he ever showed any emotion toward. He had no honest reason to mistrust the Queen, but something about her, and her hag advisor, kept his guard up impossibly high. “I told Eustrean that I was not nervous yet. That does not mean I shall not be when tomorrow is today.”

The Queen nodded. “Fair enough, and wise enough, as well. It is wasteful to fear things that are not close to you.”

“Fear?” Cedric’s eyebrow cocked. “Have I need to fear this turning, m’lady? You yourself said that you were suspicious that that was the reason I came to be here.”

“A figure of speech, Cedric,” Queen Kairos brushed away lightly, smiling to put him at ease. “Coming into your own as a Sylph has never before posed any danger. I assure that it is quite safe.” She slowly made her way toward the window, posture assuring Cedric that she was well aware that his eyes were upon her. “I trust that you’ve read up on our history, then?”

“Of course,” he stated lowly, shooting a glance toward his book pointedly. “The Birth, the Rebellion, the Fall, your arrival here, the deserters, who the allies are, who the enemies are … I have it all, m’lady … or at least as much as I plan to get, anyway.” He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward away the oncoming headache. “I also read that we’re supposedly mythological creatures that not even witches and wizards believe in, that we’re invisible to those who do not have the gift to see us, and practically useless on Earth.” He scoffed slightly.

And at this, the goddess smiled softly once more.

“Myths,” she agreed. “Mankind doesn’t understand us. In truth, we’re more like angels, just lacking Holy powers and the like -- not that we lack powers -- with large wing spands. We are just as powerful on Earth as we are in the sky, and we are capable of using weapons.”

She drew off, leaning her back against the thick window, eyes studying the unborn unashamed. Cedric fidgeted somewhat nervously under her gaze. The curious onlookings of a stranger unnerved him like nothing else. What could she possibly be looking for? Power? A shadow, perhaps, that revealed his true and honest feelings on his current situation? Not even Eustrean was aware of how deep that unsettlement went, nor, he was certain, would he tell the Chimera. There were just some things that one did not share with another whim they had just met, no matter the depth of the bond formed between them.

“This is all happening so quickly, isn’t it?” Her voice startled him, as she had, no doubt, intended it, and he looked up, slightly perturbed to discover that, whilst he had traveled the long narrowing path of his mind, she had traveled her own to stand right before him. Inhuman crystal eyes stared unblinking into his mocha orbs, and their gazes held as though drawn into a seductive, mesmerizing whirlpool of unending pain. Her torment, his torture, Cedric was not sure which wound was deeper. And he was the first to withdraw, not from fear, but for the very sake of keeping what little identity he had maintained to himself – his emotional instincts included.

“I just feel that, before two days ago, I knew nothing about this. I know what you have told me,” he added quickly, seeing the Queen’s mouth open in protest. “But there’s something else there. Something … stronger. More powerful. Your books mention legendary Sylphs with undeniable, yet tragic destinies.” Cedric glanced at the book once more. “Perhaps I am destined to be meddled into one. Perhaps not knowing of my heritage was Fate’s tool in shaping that destiny.”

“Or perhaps Fate’s plan entirely was for you to be brought to us to become a Sylph,” Kairos argued gently. “There have only been a select few Sylphs in history who have not known of their heritage before turning, and they were all great champions after. Cedric.” Their eyes met again. “I know that you want nothing more than to remember your past, believe me I know. I’ve seen you after your memory flashes – I would do anything for you not to feel as much sorrow and pain as what shows on your face after you receive them. But this – your destiny – it’s so much bigger than anything that you could have possibly ever had before you came here. You must trust me on this.”

“How could you possibly know that?” He whispered, head lowering in a halfhearted defeat.

A soft caress, a tender smile …

She left him as he was, no answer provided, no sympathy given. There was, perhaps, some pity radiating off of her petite form, but if it were there, he had obviously gone about his best way to avoid it. The book beside him now lay forgotten, as was, perchance, the best, as any further mention of what he was, or rather, what he was to become, would have only increased the pain of his mounting headache further.

As he lay his burning forehead within his smooth hands, Nadre came to her lady outside of his room, bowing her head respectively, frowning when she noticed the troubled look upon the ageless beauty’s face.

“Your Majesty?” She inquired in her raspy tone, weathered hand reaching out to lightly grip a slim shoulder in a comforting, concerned fashion.

“Are you certain of this, Nadre?” Queen Kairos questioned after a moment, raising blue eyes to the dull ones of her Seer. “He is the one that has been Spoken of? The one that will lead us to our journey home?”

“All of the signs point to him, Your Highness,” Nadre croaked back, removing her hand. “And the signs never lie. His power will be beyond belief by the time his turning is finished.”

“But withholding his memories?” The Queen demanded. “Not telling him who he is, or of his father? You and I have both seen it, Nadre. He had a life before he came to us, one far better than any that could ever be provided for him among my people.”

“Which is exactly why you must keep them hidden from him!” The hag bit back sharply, startling the Queen with the intensity of her words. “A life he had, and a destiny that would keep him from taking you home! Surely you would not ask your people to suffer another century or more on this dreadful planet for one mere halfling’s happiness?”

A chord that struck deep with Kairos’ soul. It wounded her to abuse the son of Amos so – to keep him from a life where he had obviously had everything he desired to be happy. Friends, family, a love even, perhaps? But it wounded her even more – came close to killing her – to watch as her people, once grand, proud, majestic Sylphs, suffered from a life of secrecy; secrecy required if they were to escape the laws of a callous Ministry of Magic not even she herself could defeat. Cedric’s happiness meant something powerful to her.

But the lives of her people meant the world.

And so she turned away from the wooden door of the room that had become Cedric’s, the horrible truth withheld for another hour, another day. A soul sacrificed to save hundreds.

The fall of night was the perfect setting for such a dishonorable act.

.T.

It hurt.

The pain – the physical pain … it was beyond compare with anything that he had ever withstood before. Beyond being burnt by the stove, being beaten up by bullies, hitting the ground from fifty feet in the air, withstanding the Cruciatus Curse … he had never felt anything like this.

He was freezing, and no amount of rubbing his arms and legs could lessen its fierce cold. It surrounded him, capturing him in a tight, loving embrace that was slowly killing him. It was in his veins, in his bones. Ice. Pure, hard, black ice. His new companion – replacement lover.

“Never a replacement.”

The guards that stood outside the highest-security cell in Azkaban Prison shifted uncomfortably at the raspy sound of Harry Potter’s abused voice, but the raven-haired teen was far beyond caring what they felt. For two days, the supposed savior had laid on the cold, harsh stone floor of his cell, emerald eyes staring unblinking up at the ceiling. He had not slept, had not eaten or drank, had not moved to give any sign of life. When the guard was changed, and the Dementors took temporary hold, he did not flinch, did not cry out. The guards had whispered of his heartlessness, the other prisoners of his weakness from having already fallen into insanity. Neither side saw the obvious delight the Dementors took when being in his cell, nor how reluctant they were to leave. They did not see one pained tear follow another in a sorrowful trail down an unhealthily pale cheek.

They did not see Harry Potter, and neither did he.

He had offered up no complaint of his treatment because he had none. He did not eat because he did not deserve to eat. Sleeping would take him away from the suffering he knew he deserved, and take him into a hell he could not stand to see. A world where he was alive, smiling. A world where he would take Harry into his arms, hold him as he had, comfort him, kiss him, and tease him endlessly of his treatment of his alarm.

“Cedric.”

A name he did not have the right to utter ever again. One who had cared for him so deeply, whom he had killed with his damn sense of right and wrong. One who had died for simply knowing him, for trusting him.

“Harry.”

A whisper. The guard was changing. It was coming, their justice. Justice for those who had died by his existence. For them, he was doomed to a lifetime of never-ending pain – of watching them die, of hearing their last pleading breaths. His parents, his lover …

The screech of the cell door creaking open. He did not even try to crawl away, as the two looming, hellish figures glided toward him, their skeletal hands outstretched. The soft cries of his mother began to form in his head, but were exceeded by memories – joyous memories that brought both pain and pleasure.

Soft kisses, trailing from the nape of his neck to his left temple. Firm, gentle hands trailing paths of pleasure, busy fingers dancing happily upon ticklish sides. Laughter. Warm laughter filled with such an abundance of life. Whispers of sweet, loving endearments …

He had murdered Cedric Diggory.

A small, solitary tear trickled out from the corner of his eye, pausing as though releasing sweet good-bye, and then traveling a foreshadowing road into safe oblivion.

And for the first time in two days, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter screamed, and every being within the twisted castle-like prison would forever be haunted by the wrenching sound.

.T.

As a child, there had been several times that she had considered taking her life.

Not that she had known the full extent of angst and drama at the time – it had not been the mind of a melodramatic teenager that had entertained the idea of suicide, but that of a tortured, half-breed child. One who was cursed with knowing what the future had in store, but only able to Feel it, not See it. A disappointment that had kept her from the covenants of Oracles, a disappointment that had snaked her away from the glories of a gifted Seer – a curse that had kept from enjoying childhood to such an extreme that she had wanted it to end.

Fleur’s eyes were dead as she glided down the main corridor of Hogwarts. The students who passed by her wisely kept their silence, hope fading at the lack of such from her. A hero dead, a savior taken, and now a would-be goddess gone to nearly all, destroyed by the very horrors that slowly sucked away their hope. She noticed this not.

By the time she reached her destination, the tears had begun to build up in her eyes. The hand that she reached out to rap upon the door was pale and shaking, the skin immediately turning to an abused red as the fleshed slammed against the hard wood.

“Enter,” a firm, soft voice called out. Fleur did not wait for a second invitation, instead throwing open the door and racing inside, pausing only when she realized there were others in the room besides the one that she come to see.

Viktor’s heart sank at the sight of the expression upon his beloved’s face. Without a word, he waved his hand, dismissing his school brothers, and without a word, they obeyed, eyeing the distraught Fleur with glinting respect, unconsciously lowering their heads submissively as they passed her by.

The second the door was closed behind the last Drumstrang boy, Fleur crumbled, and it was only Viktor’s Seeker reflexes that had her in his arms before she hit the ground. Without knowing why there were sobs of pain tearing at her body, and at the same time, knowing exactly why, Viktor cradled the Veela tightly, running rough hands through her smooth, pale hair.

“What is it, Fleur?” He demanded in a whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple to both soothe her and coax an answer. “Amor, please, what is it?”

And she moved away from him, just enough so that she could look him in the eye, and when she spoke, her voice was so empty that had he not felt her breathing, he would have sworn her dead.

“Kast v’ncaknot,” she stated softly, the tears continuing their descent, and though he did not understand the words, Viktor clutched her tighter as she buried her face into his shoulder once more. “I’ve lost them both.”

And the first rays of dawn broke across the sky.

.T.

Something was different about today.

The guards that were normally stationed outside of his cell door had been suspiciously absent since the departure of the Dementors yesterday, and the drifting demons had seemed to decide against another torturous liaison in his stone confinement since then, as well. A rather generous meal had been shoved into his abode by a gruff stranger that had refused to stay – a breakfast that would have made Mrs. Weasley satisfied still sat in the center of the freezing room, no doubt cool to any who would touch it now.

Harry had managed to pull himself into a sitting position against the cruel wall, gazing dully at the door in patient waiting, breath short, shallow, and fast, a tribute brought on more by his condition than his anxiety of the sudden change in behavior. Contrary to his calm exterior, his mind raced with the sudden freedom it had gained – the happenings of the last three days all becoming painfully clear to him. Whilst his heart bled from the guilt it believed he deserved, his mind argued a painful protest, logically destroying his walls of self-pity. His brain knew that what was going on was wrong; knew that he had not truly been responsible for the death of his lover. It yearned for swift and painful revenge on Wormtail and Voldemort both, for the horror they had wrought upon him. It growled for justice on Cornelius Fudge and his damned officials, who had dragged him to the infernal prison with no sort of evidence behind their claims of treachery and murder. It even went as far as scoffing at the claims – as though he could ever even so much as attempt to harm one hair on Cedric’s body, after all the older teen had done for him.

It was an ongoing battle between his mind and heart – whether or not he deserved his incarceration. And whilst they fought, their host remained an outer shell, sitting, waiting – for what he was not certain, but knowing with no doubt that it was coming.

“Potter!” The naturally timid boy jumped slightly at the harsh bark from outside of his cell door, emerald eyes jerking up unconsciously to seek out the speaker. “Visitor.”

He knew who it was before the robed figure sat down across from him.

“Hullo, Percy,” he croaked softly, offering up a weak smile for the man that had joined him. Amber eyes narrowed somewhat as they studied him, but where scrutiny had once been one of Harry’s largest annoyances, he now let it happen without even a bat of an eyelash.

“Your trial is today, Harry,” the third eldest of the Weasley clan stated finally, apparently finding what he was looking for. “In just a matter of minutes, they’re going to come for you.” Harry simply closed his eyes, letting his head fall back in exhaustion.

“I was wondering when they were going to get around to it,” he replied softly. He could not see the confusion assembling across Percy’s face. A trial would certainly explain the lack of Dementors -- the Ministry certainly could not have had an incoherent prisoner, could they? There wouldn’t be any fun in that …

“I know we haven’t gotten on great, Harry,” Percy continued regardless. “But you have come to mean a great deal to my family, and no matter how I act, they mean a great deal to me. If you were to die, they would be crushed, and that is not something I cannot allow to happen.” He paused for a moment, as though he were unable to believe the next words that were about to come out of his mouth. “Look, I’m a friend of the guard, and he also happens to be a fan of yours. It would be risky, but with some work, I can get you out of here …”

“That won’t be necessary, Percy,” Harry interrupted gently, slowly moving back up. “I won’t have you putting yourself in danger simply to get me out of a trial.”

“Simply to … trial … Harry.” The raven-haired savior was slightly taken aback by the desperateness in Percy’s voice. “Minister Fudge has decreed that no matter the ruling, you are to receive the Dementor’s Kiss before nightfall. If you stay here, your fate will be far worse than any death that could be offered to you!”

He wondered if perhaps his heart had discovered some hidden light-saber – Anakin Skywalker’s, at the very least – for it had suddenly sliced the reasoning of his brain into countless smoldering pieces. Suddenly, he had no care of justice, or protecting others, or avenging anyone.

“A fate I assure you, Percy, I deserve more than anyone in this prison. Some of them have murdered, yes.” He paused, catching Percy dead on in the eye, making the man freeze with the passion behind the emerald pools. “But none have of them have betrayed a lover by gaining their trust, and then stabbing them in the back and throwing them into an early deathbed.”

“I deserve this, Percy,” he added slowly. “I have killed the one person who meant more to me than anything in the world. There is no justification for that.” They both looked up as the cell door opened, and two Ministry Officials stepped inside, shackles in each hand. Harry rose to greet them with no protest, glancing back at his companion once more as they restrained him.

“Tell Ron I’m sorry.”

.T.

“I’m worried about you.”

He turned toward his companion, a small, reassuring smile on his face, laughter on his lips. The setting of the room they were in was a sharp contrast to his mood -- dark, damp; gloomy, if one was depressed enough to view it that way. No doubt the younger boy had closed the window again, thus blocking out the wondrous moonlight that made their place so beautiful.

Cedric walked forward, expanding his arms to wrap around the slim body of his boyfriend, cradling him in a protective embrace Cedric doubted very much he had experienced very much of. 

“Well, don’t be,” he waved off with words. “I’ll be perfectly fine.” He pulled away slightly, brushing his nose against the other, smile widening at the reluctant grin that broke out upon the pale face. “It’s you everyone should be worried about. You’re too young … and too prone to trouble.” The boy jerked away completely, a faux-offended expression settling exaggeratedly across his face. He turned away.

“Not that it’s ever my fault! Bad guys are just attracted to me, that‘s all.” A soft bubble of laughter building -- the fear is temporarily forgotten. 

Gently, Cedric tugged on his arm, causing him to whirl around and their eyes to meet. For one split, blissful second, it stayed that way, before Cedric was unable to keep his eyebrow from cocking, or the chuckle that was within his mouth.

“Bad guys?” He mocked lightly, his smile growing serene at the pout that formed on his lover’s lips.

“Shut up,” the younger pleaded softly, tilting his head at an angle that caused Cedric’s breath to hitch. Humor evaporated from the room, and the brunette could have sworn that he heard the rythmatic music of both of their hearts beating at impossible rates as their faces drew closer together.

It was a soft kiss -- gentle -- loving, yet still somehow desperate. A bittersweet caress that poured emotions; sang sweet songs of pain and love. Their lips teased, and the slowly parted, allowing their tongues to entangle in an eternal dance. Nimble, shy fingers swept through his hair as he raced his own down the length of his lover’s back. He smirked slightly as the other arched uncontrollably, pulling away just long enough to glance up into heavy emerald eyes that still held a glimmer of distress. Slowly, he pulled the other’s face toward him, pressing a kiss to both temples, and then nibbling at the left ear, and whispered.

“Don’t worry, Harry.”

Cedric jolted awake with a start, sitting up so quickly that the book that was resting on his chest slammed to the floor, page lost. The dark walls had vanished, and the only other one in the room was, unsurprisingly, Eustrean. The Chimera padded up to him slowly, his back hooves clicking on the tile in a way the reassured Cedric’s anxious body.

“You didn’t even make it to your bed this time,” the creature growled softly, staring at the chair the teen was in in slight disdain. Cedric did not comment, the distraction tactic not working as well as had been intended. “Another memory?”

“Not sure,” Cedric replied hollowly, taking in a deep breath before reaching down and retrieving his book. “It may have been, but I can’t really remember any of it. It’s all … vague.” Unknown to them both, Cedric’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair, his knuckles turning stark white whilst his fingertips practically bled red. The headache from last night had now barged in without invitation, full force, and he felt tears of desperation well up in his eyes. Another memory -- an important one, he knew -- gone.

Eustrean seemed to sense his stress, for he lightly butted his head against the teen’s chest, effectively drawing Cedric’s attention somewhat away from the painful loss.

“It’s time, then, isn’t it?” He whispered after a moment, reaching up to stroke the Chimera’s fur. He received no verbal response -- instead, Eustrean turned, directing him toward the door with a wave of his scaly tale, golden eyes gleaming as he observed him.

And for the first time since he had awoken three days ago, Cedric hesitated.

Everyone within the village had seemed so adamant about his future as a Sylph. Those who had dared to speak to him had been so fervently adamant about his turning, that he had barely questioned it until last night. But now … that dream. It had thrown things. What he had told Eustrean made no difference, he knew that had been a memory, even if he could just barely recall it. A life that he had had before. A life where he had been human -- a destiny to be human.

‘But then, who is to say that destinies don’t change?’ he thought. ‘Or that that was truly my destiny? Perhaps Queen Kairos is right. Perhaps I’m meant to be a Sylph, and that is my destiny. That life … it could have all lead to this moment. And if that is true, that life, and those in it, are no longer important.’

‘Can I live with that?’

“Cedric?”

‘I feel as though what I once was has already died. ‘

“I’m ready.”

.T.

One would think that seeing the Ministry of Magic would not be so intimidating for one who had grown up around it. Yet Ron stared at the long, winding corridor before him with a mixture of aggression and fear. There were only five reasons he liked the building, and all but one happened to be working in the Auror Department on the floor below him. The other was off doing Merlin knew what under orders from the grand wizard currently walking beside him.

“Alright there, Ron?” The redhead teen glanced up to study the weary form of his favorite professor, nodding only to assure the werewolf, and not in truth.

How could one be alright when attending the murder trial of their best friend?

They walked down the previously examined hall was a long one -- too long. Everyone who was within it knew why the small group was there, and seemed quite incapable of being able to conceal their feelings on the matter. A few sent the wizards and witch sympathetic smiles and wistful glances toward the court room door, but most scowled in disdain, muttering opinions of Harry that Ron desperately wished killing was not such an illegal crime. To those, he merely scowled back, lip curling in a sneer that would have either made Professor Snape proud, or horrified that one of his least favorite students could mimic him so precisely.

“Please state your intended purpose,” snapped the guard at the front of the door, who looked more bored with his task than he was interested in the arrivals.

“Well, you see, we’re here to rescue Harry Potter, who has been wrongly accused of murder, and to throw the dear, stupid Minister Fudge into the cell in Harry’s place,” the youngest Weasley son replied quickly in the same tone before Dumbledore even got the opportunity to open his mouth.

“Ron!” Hermione hissed, naturally appalled. Remus shifted in sober amusement, whilst the anger that radiated off of Dumbledore was uncharacteristic. Not in the least be chastise, Ron eyed his headmaster daringly, before looking away from the group completely.

“You must forgive him,” The Headmaster amended quickly, and only Remus could hear the tightness in his voice. “This is a trying time for all of us. We were asked here to be witnesses for the trial of Harry Potter,” he added, seeing that the guard was not truly caring one way or another.

“You can enter,” he said despondently, moving aside as though nothing had passed. “Just make sure there are no more outbursts.” He glanced at Ron pointedly, who merely turned his head away again. “The Minister doesn’t appreciate that kina stuff.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore replied kindly, bowing his head slightly before he made his way in. Hermione was quick on his trail, as was Ron, once Remus had encircled an arm around his shoulders and pushed him ahead

“It’s got to be killing Snuffles not to be here,” Ron whispered before they entered. Remus smiled grimly.

“You have no idea.”

When they entered the court room, Ron felt as though his feet were frozen, and an unwilling glance at Hermione revealed the horror on her face. The room was small, and though they were within thirty minutes early, it was already filled with some of the most important witches and wizards that Ron had only been fortunate enough to see pictures of. They sat in seats that were far too close together to be even somewhat comfortable,

Yet despite their large number and obvious discomfort, the entire lot was oddly quiet. The teen fidgeted nervously beside his werewolf companion as fifty pairs of eyes shot in the direction of the newly arrived group. He could see their disapproving scowls, the way their mouths twisted in disgust, the distaste that filled their eyes in abundant, seemingly endless waves … A sharp, faltering pain stabbed at his heart.

Did no one believe in Harry’s innocence?

“Ah, Dumbledore!” The soft sound of Remus’ low growl at the Minister’s jubilant voice was missed by no one. “You’re here! Wonderful! Then we can get started. Please take a seat …”

“I was under the given impression that the trial did not start until eight o’clock, Cornelius,” Dumbledore interrupted, objecting as Fudge peered down at them from his throne-like seat. “It is only half after seven.”

“Several pressing matters have come up within the last twenty-four hours, Dumbledore,” another voice replied, one Ron did not recognize. “I am sure that you understand.”

“Besides,” added another voice, sneering. “If Mr. Potter is indeed innocent of the murder of Cedric Diggory, son of Ministry worker Amos Diggory, then there should be no reason to fear a move up of trial time.”

And then Ron knew it, perhaps long before Dumbledore and Remus had even begun to suspect it, or Hermione to realize it. The entire trial was a conspiracy. Death Eaters from the First War were treated with more courtesy -- trial times were never just decided, nor were they changed once set.

He knew it. He knew it before they knew it. And knew that if he was aware of the trap that had been set, then Harry was, as well.

They had no choice but to comply, and soon Ron found himself sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair in the front row between Hermione and Remus, the tips of his trainers a mere two inches away from a metallic, circular design on the floor in front of them.

Right before he had gone to sleep last night, and all during the morning prior to their arrival to the Ministry of Magic, Ron had been able to squash his anxiety over the trial as though it were an ant beneath his shoe. Harry was the Wizarding World’s savior – their golden boy – their darling – the one they either loved, or loved to hate. No matter their feelings toward the raven-haired innocent, it would be purely impossible for them to convict him of murder.

But now … he could hear his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest in urgency.

A dramatic sound that merely increased in magnitude as a rather fat, squashy witch stood up from the far left side of the Wizengamot’s stand.

“Trial number five hundred and forty-five thousand,” she stated in a bold tone, sounding far too happy than someone in this room had a right to be. “Harry Potter versus Wizarding Community and Wizengamot. Accusation: Murder of one Cedric Amos Diggory by use of the forbidden Killing Curse. Suggested sentence:,” the witch paused here, a sinister, grotesque smile forming on her disturbing face. “Dementor’s Kiss.”

As she returned to her seat, Ron had barely enough time to suck in a breath before the metal design at his feet began to move. He could feel Remus bristle beside him as the circular piece began to rise, and then was inundated by his own horror at the sight of the metal bars that accompanied it.

And the haunted pair of emerald green eyes that stared up at him as his best friend slowly rose to his level.

He was chained, one arm to either side of the cage so that he was spread out in a vulnerable position. His neck was held up by a thick metal collar, forcing his head to stay upright, revoking his ability to look down so that his eyes would not have to meet with those of his sentencers.

For a second, Ron managed to hold Harry’s gaze. There was no fear on his face, no stiffness of injustice in his posture. Instead, he merely hung, his body slack just to the point that he did not have to strain to keep his neck up. The redhead was horrified to feel the guilt that practically radiated off of his small form.

“Harry Potter!” Minister Fudge bellowed out, causing their gazes to break to instead lock upon him. “You are charged with the murder of your fellow schoolmate, Cedric Diggory, during the Final Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, by use of the Killing Curse. It has been requested by several that you receive the Dementor’s Kiss for the heinous crime.” The smirk that was plastered onto the man’s face was invisible to no one. “Do you contest the accusation that you are guilty?”

For a moment, there was silence. Ron watched as Harry’s eyes slowly flowed around the room, pinpointing faces. He observed as he caught Dumbledore’s eye, and then Remus’, saw with confusion the horrified realization and then comforting, soothing sympathy that passed over his face as he studied Hermione (of which also seemed to puzzle her), and then froze as those eyes once again ended on him.

And he knew it was coming. Right then and there. Dread filled him like hot liquid lead as Harry slowly nodded to him with the best of his ability, and managed to muster up a small, reassuring smile.

Another moment of silence, and no one dared speak to interrupt the unspoken conversation between the two best friends. And then …

“I do not.”

The words were soft, but all heard them. There was an instant uproar of shocked and outraged murmurs that not even Fudge’s angry orders could destroy. Hermione let loose a devastated sob that sounded as though it were muddled with a myriad of different emotions, not all of them understandable. He could feel Remus sink beside him in a puddle of shock – he didn’t even dare to glance over at Dumbledore. He couldn’t even move as flashes began to envelope his best friend – apparently, Harry did not even deserve the respect of a ban on reporters for his trial.

“Mr. Potter!” Fudge’s cry finally managed to break through the noise, and an instant quiet doused the courtroom once more. “You understand that pleading guilty to such an act will ensure your sentence to the Dementor’s Kiss?”

“I killed Cedric Diggory, Minister,” Harry replied in the same soft tone as before, a gentle hint of rasp clear in his voice. “I killed him. I deserve nothing less than a fate worse than death itself.” His gaze did not break from Ron’s as the outcry started up once more. Overcoming his shock with a fierce shake of his head, the Minister slammed his gavel upon the winding desk before him harshly.

“Harry James Potter, you are hereby sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss for the murder of Cedric Diggory. You will be placed in the maximum security cell in Azkaban Prison until the stroke of midnight, at which time your sentence will come to pass.”

“No!” Hermione’s anguished cry startled Ron out of his cognitive state, and he barely had time to grasp the witch before she reached the cell.

Despite her protesting cry, the damnable cage began to sink below the floor once more. Ron desperately wanted to throw himself at it the same way Hermione had, to rescue his sorrowful friend from the hell he was willingly throwing himself into.

And as though he heard his thoughts, Harry looked up to catch his eye one final time.

“Don’t,” he whispered, a finally, there was a shred of tears in his eyes. “Please forgive me.”

And the circular design once again became embedded into the floor.

.T.

On an entirely different continent, in an entirely different situation, with entirely the same dangers, his lover laid himself upon a freezing stone tab. He was clothed in only a pair of soft brown leather pants, yet somehow he managed to keep his body from wracking with the shudders such a cold demanded.

“I take it that you’re nervous, now.” Cedric peered open an eye to glare at the Chimera beside him, slowly reaching out a hand to gently caress the lion head, smiling softly as Eustrean released and involuntary purr.

“I am afraid,” he admitted softly after a minute of contentment, and Eustrean’s purrs instantly ceased.

“The transformation?” He inquired gently, shaking his massive head. “You know you have no need --.” Cedric cut him off.

“Not the transformation, no. I fear …” he paused as though unsure of his wording. “I fear what I will become. What if I change too much? What if the life I had, I will never have again because of this? What if the people I loved will no longer love me for my change?”

“Then they were not truly worth your love to begin with,” the Chimera growled softly, casting a baleful eye toward his queen before turning back to his charge, nudging his gently with his nose. “Do not worry so of it, Cedric. What will come will come.”

The brunette teen nodded slowly, eyes turning higher as Queen Kairos and the priests came into view.

“Are you ready Cedric?” She asked gently. He said nothing, merely closing his eyes and positioning his head back into proper place. She took this as a yes. “Now, as you know, the both the process of transformation and the transformation itself will be painful. I am sorry that I cannot promise you a kinder path.” Again, no words were spoken. “By midnight, you will be a Sylph, and the process will be over.”

‘And I can go home,’ Cedric assured himself softly.

Queen Kairos, receiving no desired reply, moved away, and the priests took her place. Eustrean watched with sorrowful eyes as they withdrew their ancient, sacred daggers and began carving into the teen’s pale skin, wincing as the gathered Sylphs began their ritualistic chants.

And as a solitary tear trickled down the side of Cedric’s face, Eustrean bowed his head.

What he they done?

.T.

And Harry Potter leaned against the wall of the highest cell of Azkaban Prison, well aware of the lack of guards, and not caring that escape could be easily accomplished. Instead, he stared out into another place, of which no other could see. A place where he was happy, Cedric beside him, their laughter resonating for all to hear.

“Violent tears,” he whispered softly, speaking the words he and Cedric had shared since their first night together. Bitter, reassuring. “A tight hold …”

A single tear traveled down the side of his face.

“ Don’t cry, heart dear, for the secret isn’t told.”

To Be Continued …


End file.
